


A Big Deal About Not Very Much

by Lily of the West (west_of_house)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Humor, I ship it to all 50 states, this is completely ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3389717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/west_of_house/pseuds/Lily%20of%20the%20West
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of watching Varric and Cassandra spar, Dorian and Sera recruit the Inquisitor - and everyone else, more or less -  in a plan to resolve their unresolved sexual tension. If it works, it’ll be the biggest and most successful prank ever pulled at Skyhold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Friendly Wager; A Plan Is Hatched

“A sovereign on Cassandra admits it first,” said Sera.

“Oh, no. She’d never break,” Dorian said, taking a sip of Garbolg’s Old Peculiar. “Varric,on the other hand...spewing romantic drivel is his job. The question is, what would it take for him to say some of it out loud?”

“What are you two conspiring about?” said the Inquisitor, sliding into a seat next to Dorian. The Herald’s Rest was packed tonight. They’d just come back from taking down another dragon, and Iron Bull had started off the evening by buying a celebratory round. By now it seemed like most of Skyhold was here, and drunk.

“Nooooothing,” said Sera, glancing around sketchily. Then again, nothing about Sera wasn’t sketchy. “Pretend you didn’t hear anything.”

“Is this another prank?” the Inquisitor said. Eian Trevelyan, younger son of House Trevelyan and a general useless gadabout, had not expected to become Lord Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste and leader of the mighty Inquisition. He’d risen to the occasion with great aplomb, but it had been a while since he had let off steam. “Come on, Sera. You know I’m good for it. I want in.”

“It’s not a prank,  _per se_ ,” Dorian said. “We’re just taking friendly wagers. On Varric and Cassandra, if you must know. And perhaps thinking of ways to facilitate their...reconciliation. Not that they were ever conciliated in the first place.” He sighed into his drink. “We’re not coming up with much.”

“Why’d you tell him?” Sera complained. “You know him and Varric are, whatchamacallit. Bromancers. Brofessionals. Baked bro-tatoes. You won’t tell Varric, will you? Come on, don’t tell him. It’ll ruin everything.”

The Inquisitor leaned in, grinning. “Why would I do that?” he said. “You’re right. This could be amazing. You think they could really…”

“You’ve seen them,” Dorian said. “Sparks flying every which way. Tell me it’s not meant to be.”

“It probably already is,” Sera said. “Not that either one knows it yet, not in the front part of their brains. All we need to do is make them realize it. Two ships that crash in the night, sort of thing.”

Eian glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure neither of their potential victims was within earshot. Cassandra, it seemed, was nowhere to be found - training, or praying, or whatever it is she did when everyone else was having fun. Meanwhile, over near the hearth, Varric was regaling the Chargers with some ridiculous story, the hard-bitten mercenaries listening, rapt. Hawke-tales, most likely. The man certainly had a way with words. Even Cassandra, with that trashy book -

And that was when inspiration struck.

“All right,” Eian said. “I’ve got it. I think I’ve got it. We’re going to need a few more recruits, and it’ll be risky. One of us gets caught, we disavow knowledge of the whole thing, all right?”

“No risk is too great for our dear friends’ happiness,” Dorian said. “And of course our own amusement. So. What’s this brilliant plan of yours?”

* * *

“I’ve already told you, life does not necessarily imitate art,” Varric said. “So why are you even asking about me and Cassandra?”

“Because,” the Inquisitor said. He looked down at his feet, twisting his hands nervously, and - was he blushing? The unquestioned force behind the Inquisition, blushing like an awkward schoolboy. Oh great.

“Oh, no. Don’t even say it -”

“Because I’m in love with her,” Eian blurted.

Varric sighed. “I was afraid you were going to say that. Look, not that I know her all that well, but I’m guessing there’s nothing but brambles and angry bears down that path. What about Josephine? She’s a nice girl, Ruffles. And I think she likes you.”

“That’s just it,” Eian said. “A nice girl of good family. My parents would adore her. But after this is all over - you think I want to be locked into that life? I’m like you, Varric. A dissolute younger son, forced into respectability by circumstance.”

“...Dissolute? Really?”

“Well, okay, you know what I’m getting at.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, once Corypheus is done with, I want none of that lords-and-ladies rigmarole. Cassandra? She’s an honest-to-Maker princess, and she doesn’t  _care_. She dislikes that world as much as I do. And you have to admit, she’s magnificent.”

“Do I?” Varric muttered.

“That profile! Those cheekbones! And you’ve seen her fight. The passionate fury of it! She’ll stop at nothing to achieve her goals, and woe betide anyone who crosses her -”

“I’m aware. Look. Okay. We don’t pick who we fall for, I get that. But why are you telling me? You know she and I have our....issues.”

“If anyone else could help me,” Eian said earnestly, “I wouldn’t bother you. But I need  _you_ , specifically. I just...whether she ever feels the same about me, or not, it doesn’t matter. I need to tell her. I need her to know she’s loved. So I want to write her a poem.”

Varric sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You mean you want  _me_  to write her a poem.”

“Anonymously! I’m not ready to confess anything yet,” Eian said, blushing even deeper. “I’d just like to...plant the seeds, as it were. And this is your metier. You know she’s on her third read-through of  _Swords and Shields_? Whatever you put in there, I need that.”

“Purple prose and ridiculous plot twists,” Varric said. “Cardboard characterization. Swoony cheeseball romance. And the best worst sex writing I’ve ever committed to paper. As I already told the Seeker, there’s no accounting for taste.” He could feel a headache coming on. “Look, Inquisitor, this isn’t the same as writing a book. That was for Cassandra as a  _fan_. This is  _to_  her.  _About_  her. I don’t know if I can go there.”

“Please, Varric. Remember that near miss in the Exalted Plains? You owe me.”

Andraste’s flaming knickers, he did. If it weren’t for the Inquisitor’s well-timed dagger last week, Varric would be a Red Templar’s dwarf kebab right now. A life for a poem? Decent enough trade. And finding something positive to say about Cassandra would be an interesting exercise, at least. It’s always good for a writer to step out of his comfort zone from time to time.

“Sure,” Varric sighed. “Fine. Okay. I’ll do it. But I’m not working from thin air. You give me the generalities, I’ll do the specifics.”

Eian perked up considerably. “Thank you! I’ll never forget this. Here, I already made up an outline. This is what I want it to be about.” He handed Varric a slip of paper, on which he had written:

  1. cheekbones

  2. faith

  3. passion

  4. eyes

  5. fighting

  6. determination

  7. ass




Varric regarded the list. “That’s her, all right. I can work with everything except the...last one. Not touching that, either literally or figuratively.” Shit, shit, shit, now he was thinking about something he had consciously decided quite some time ago never to think about.  _Come on, think about something not Cassandra’s-ass-related, Varric! A nug fight. Jousting statistics. Bloody decapitations._

You know what, though, maybe it would be  _useful_  to let himself think about it, for once. Just...intellectually. For the purpose of this exercise.

“I warn you, this might just piss her off,” Varric said. “But it’s your funeral. Now get out of here, you lovesick squire, you. Go inquisit something. I should have the first draft to you by tomorrow night.”

After the Inquisitor had gone, Varric pulled out a sheet of paper and, regarding the blank expanse, wondered how he got himself into these things. He had Merchants’ Guild correspondence to write - deals to do, people to bribe - and his editor, delighted at sales of  _Hard in Hightown_ , was on his case for more chapters. He didn’t have time to pitch vicarious woo at that be-armored hellcat. And yet.

He thought of Cassandra’s face when the Inquisitor had handed her the latest  _Swords and Shields_. The way she’d lit up… Peace offering or no peace offering, he had to admit that was the reason he’d agreed to write it in the first place. Anything for his fans.

_On her third read-through? Already? Huh._

Grinning a little to himself, Varric dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write.

 


	2. The Randy Dowager Quarterly

“The third meeting of the Inquisition Literary Society will now come to order,” said Josephine. The book club had been Cassandra’s idea, but she had turned down leadership (as she was wont to do) and the Inquisition’s diplomat had happily stepped up. So far attendance was small but loyal. “Has everyone remembered to bring this week’s selection?”

“I didn't,” Sera said.

“That’s because you’re just here for the snacks,” Dorian said. “Josephine, I'm putting in a request. Can we please read something for next time other than execrable pulp romance? My brain is starting to dribble out my ears.”

“I quite liked this week's chapter,” Josephine said brightly. She pulled out the most recent issue of _The Randy Dowager Quarterly_ and opened it to the selection in question: chapter 3 of the mage/templar serial _Love Among the Runes_. She had, Cassandra noticed, neatly underlined her favorite parts.

“I liked the smutty bits,” Sera opined. “Rest of it was shit.”

“I, ah...did not really get that far,” Cassandra said.

Leliana sighed. “You were re-reading _Swords and Shields_ instead, weren’t you. Again.”

“How many times is that, four?” Dorian said.

“Three,” Cassandra said stiffly. “And that’s not the reason why. I simply did not find _Love Among the Runes_ to be all that compelling. The Templar Order is ridiculously misrepresented. The fight scenes are terribly written. And when it comes to Eliane and Ser Audra…”

“I like Ser Audra,” Josephine said, somewhat aggrieved.

Cassandra had _opinions_ on this subject. “Audra is a one-note character. There is more to a strong heroine than who she kills and how much she...fornicates. A truly strong character has vulnerabilities. Visible flaws, which she constantly works to overcome - and she may sometimes fail, but her strength of character comes from…”

“You’re talking about the Knight-Captain again.”

Cassandra sighed. “Yes,” she said, “I suppose I am.”

“Can we have one meeting,” Dorian said, “just one meeting, where Cassandra doesn’t wax rhapsodic about that piece of trash? Cassandra, could you just try reading something else for once?”

“If someone wrote me a book, I’d probably read it over and over, too,” Sera said. “Especially if it had smutty bits. Then I’d just reread the smutty bits.” She peered over at the canvas bookbag sitting next to Cassandra’s chair. “ _Has_ it got smutty bits?”

“He did not write it _for_ me,” Cassandra said. “Varric writes for himself, just as he does most things for himself. The Inquisitor simply pointed out how he could use his talents for his personal benefit.”

“Namely, not having you wanting to wring his neck every five minutes,” Dorian said.  “You know, if you upgraded your interactions with him from ‘not actively attempting murder’ to ‘civil’, I bet you could get another three or four volumes out of him.”

“What do you even like about this shite, anyway?” Sera said through a mouthful of mixed nuts. “Thought someone like you would like your light reading with more, y’know. Bloody murder.”

“I suppose...it’s the fantasy of it,” Cassandra said. “That in the darkest times, love will triumph. And that a woman such as, say, the Knight-Captain - a woman of strength, but not necessarily...delicacy - could be a romantic heroine, and could be truly adored, as the Lieutenant adores her. But as I said: simply a fantasy.” She sighed. “Pretend I did not say any of that. Now, may we actually discuss the book we’re here to discuss?”

“Just a fantasy? You’ve never been the heroine? No one’s ever swept you off your feet with sweet words and delicate Antivan chocolates?” Dorian insisted. “Snuck into your quarters and filled your armor with roses? Never had a war started for you?”

“A man once killed a wyvern for me and gave me its skull,” Cassandra said. “Shields, armor. An ancestral sword, once. It belonged to the gentleman in question’s great-grandfather. I refused it.”

“Why?” said Sera. “That’s romantic as _fuck._ ”

“I have my duties,” Cassandra said stiffly. “I’ve had very little time for...dalliances. And besides, I have no need of swords, and I can kill my own wyverns. Had one of them written me a sonnet…” She smiled, a bit wistfully. “It might have been different. But likely not.”

“So that’s what it takes to woo Cassandra Pentaghast,” Dorian said. “Swords no, slaughter of helpless giant lizards no, poetry yes. I’ll inform Skyhold’s lovesick swains immediately.”

“There will be plenty of time for off-topic chat after the official discussion session is over,” Josephine said. Cassandra gave her a grateful glance. “Now, if you please, let us turn to page 163, where the Senior Enchanter has threatened Eliane with…”

Cassandra flipped through the slim volume. _The Randy Dowager Quarterly_ ’s quality had been going downhill lately. No doubt many of the periodical’s best authors had found themselves distracted by current events. She thought of Varric - with the same twist of irritation with which she always thought of Varric - sitting at his desk in the Great Hall, writing out war correspondence and business arrangements and everything that was not another volume of _Swords and Shields_. She considered Dorian’s proposal of being nicer to him in exchange for more books and wondered whether or not it was too high a price to pay.

She flipped to the proper page - not difficult, as it had been bookmarked by a small, folded sheet of fine paper. Odd. She did not recall using a bookmark. Curious, she removed and opened it; it contained some lines in a fine hand she didn’t recognize.

She read:

_The passion in her eyes my heart devour’d,_

_An offering burnt on some ancient pyre;_

_And though by flame I may be overpowered,_

_The moth sees light, and seeks unceasing fire…_

What was this? Someone, probably the previous borrower, had copied down a poem and left it in her library book. A love sonnet, of all things. Reading it over, a blush rose to her cheeks. As weaknesses went, hers could be worse: it could be drink, it could be gambling. Sentimentality was a harmless vice. The poem was not one she recognized, but it was lovely, and -

A line near the end brought her thoughts to a screeching halt.

_if I could trace the scar along her cheek_

 Her heart caught in her throat. This was...

This was for her. Whether it was a joke, or a plea, it was for her: her poem. Someone had written Cassandra Pentaghast a sonnet, and it was...it was…

Cheeks burning, she glanced up from the book. Josephine was complaining that no one had done the discussion worksheet, Leliana was expounding on the dynamic between Eliane and the Senior Enchanter, and Sera was making fart noises with her hands. None of them were watching her.

Hiding the paper in the book, heart pounding, she read it again. And again, lingering on the last lines:

  _And though for now I shall conceal my name_

_Doubt not I burn, who you have set aflame._

 She had a secret admirer. Or, more likely, a secret tormentor, if it turned out not to be genuine; and it probably was not; but had this been meant as a prank, it would be crueler. Or would it? She was not an accurate judge of these things. Who? _Who_ would do this to her?

Her eyes narrowed. She had some questions to ask.

* * *

 

She caught up to Dorian in the hallway after the meeting, grabbed him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. “What do you know?” she snarled.

“That you should probably buy me a drink first?” Dorian squirmed out of her grasp and glared at her. “You simply have to stop greeting people like this. Whatever’s wrong, it’s not my fault -”

“The talk of poetry. ‘Skyhold’s lovesick swains’. WHAT DO YOU KNOW, Tevinter? Where did... _this_...come from?” She waved the folded poem in front of his nose. “How did it get in my book?”

“Why, I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dorian said, eyes glinting. “But now I’m very curious to find out. Here, let me see.” He reached for the paper.

Cassandra snatched it back. With a disgusted grunt, she stalked off down the hallway. Her face was still burning, and she should probably not have confronted Dorian. It was probably a coincidence. She had been the one to bring up poetry, after all.

But someone was having her on, and she would find out who, and…

...and…

...what if it _wasn’t_ a joke?

She would have to read it again for clues as to the author’s identity and intentions. It had been a long day. Perhaps she’d draw a bath, and do some analysis there. Not that the whole thing hadn’t been burned into her brain the instant she read it. But perhaps she could find some other nuance that would shed light on the situation after another read-through or two. Or three.

And then! And then she would find the culprit, whoever was taunting her so, and bring them to justice! Or possibly dinner.

Caught in a delicious, confusing spiral of rage and delight, Cassandra stalked off to her quarters.

* * *

“Do you think she liked it?” Josephine said nervously. “She seemed...upset.”

“Pffft,” Leliana said. “I know Cassandra as well as anyone, and she was not _upset_. _Bothered_ , perhaps. But that is the point, is it not?”

Dorian came back in the room, the Inquisitor in tow. “She nearly ripped my collar off!” he said cheerily. “I’d say we’ve hooked her. Or, rather, Varric has hooked her. What did you tell him to put in that poem?”

Eian shrugged. “I gave him, what, five words?” he said. “Whatever’s in that poem, whatever got to her - none of it came from _me_. Which is exactly as we’ve planned. I think this may be easier than we originally thought.”

“And now that Cassandra is...bothered,” Josephine said, “what is the next step? How do we bring the two of them closer together?”

The Inquisitor grinned. “Now we begin Phase Two,” he said.


	3. Exit, Pursued By a Bear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric: I spy…  
> Cassandra: No.  
> Varric: But…  
> Cassandra: No. 
> 
> \- party banter

Donnen Brennocovic was shouting for backup in a hailstorm of arrows when a slender shadow fell across Varric’s desk. He glanced up from chapter 3 of the official sequel to _Hard in Hightown_ to see Josephine, looking solemn and holding a small stack of papers.

“More information on red lyrium came in today,” she said. “The Inquisitor’s already been through it, but I thought you might want to see it as well.”

Varric sighed. “Thanks, Ruffles. But I don’t think there’s anything else I can contribute to that particular effort. Just go ahead and give it to Dagna.” He picked up his pen, bent over the page, hoped that she wouldn’t say the next thing she was about to say.

“There was a letter for you inside - “

“I’d appreciate it if you just...don’t tell me, all right? I know you mean well, but I’m...” He almost said “not interested,” but that was too much of a lie even for him. “Too busy to think about it right now.”

Josephine’s face was the picture of diplomatic concern. “Shall I keep it for you, then?”

Varric waved a hand. “Keep it, burn it, use it as festive wallpaper, whatever you want. Not my problem.” Another lie. Bianca Davri was and would always be his problem.

“I’ll put it with the others,” Josephine said. She put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, briefly, and then headed for the Undercroft to hand off Bianca’s research to the mad arcanist. Varric’s eyes followed the bundle of papers Josephine carried until she was out of sight, and then he forced himself back to his work.

Fact of the matter was, he and Bianca deserved each other. His friends in Kirkwall, and now here too - Hawke in particular was not a Bianca fan - saw the smith as an unpredictable and unwelcome force who’d show up every few years or so, wreck Varric’s life for a bit and then disappear again. What they didn’t know is how many times he’d done the same damned thing to her. Over the course of fifteen years together and apart - mostly apart - they’d occasionally hurt, disappointed, betrayed, and in one memorable instance triple-crossed each other. And yet whatever they had, in some form or another, held. Strange but true.

But this time? After putting _all of Thedas_ in danger and lying about it - not for any defensible  reason, either, but just to cover her own ass! - Varric was beginning to think that his long-lost love was, finally, lost. He might forgive her someday. Maybe. Maybe not. Weirder shit has happened. In the meantime, he was trying not to think about it: keeping busy, writing as much as he could, getting poor Brennocovic into a predicament he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get him out of without the tragic death of at least one fan-favorite side character, and of course helping out the Inquisitor with all that inquisiting.

Speak of the demon and the demon appears. Here was the Inquisitor now, striding across the hall like a force of nature, scattering visiting nobles and hangers-on. He made a beeline for Varric. “You. With me. Now,” he said, grabbing him unceremoniously by the arm and practically dragging him down the hallway, past a surprised Solas, up the stairs and into the library.

“Why, Inquisitor, this is all so sudden,” Varric said as the Inquisitor ushered him into a dark alcove. “To what do we owe this random manhandling?”

There was that subtle shift in the Inquisitor’s demeanor - from the unstoppable leader into, well, _Eian_. And he was grinning. Eian with that particular grin could be a good or bad sign, depending. He gestured to Dorian, who was lounging not far away reading the _Big Tevinter Book of Creepy-Ass Spells_ or something; the mage sighed a long-suffering sigh and joined them.

“It worked!” Eian said, once the conspirators were gathered. “It worked! Tell him, Dorian.”

“It depends on your definition of ‘worked’,” Dorian said. “I put the note in the book, as directed - and what did you say my payment was, Inquisitor? That bottle of Rowan's Rose you found in the Hinterlands, correct?”

“ _Half_ the bottle of Rowan's Rose.”

“Hm. I should have negotiated for more. In any case: she turned red as a tomato when she read it, and then nearly tore my throat out in the hallway afterwards demanding what I knew about it. Did she like it? Did she hate it? Who’s to know with her?”

“I don’t think she has separate emotions for those things,” Varric said. He was trying and failing to keep a small smile off his face. Heh. Tomato. He would have loved to see that.  “Sounds to me like we hit her where it counts. I mean, _you_ did, Inquisitor. Now, my suggestion is you do this totally crazy thing I heard about one time. Ladies love it.”

“What’s that?” Eian said.

“Have a conversation,” Varric said. “You’ve got her attention. Take advantage of that and stop standing around gaping like a fish - yeah, I’ve seen how you get around her lately - and use your words.”

“Use my words? Oh, no, no, no,” Eian said. “Trust me, they’re not up for the job. Not yet. I just get so tongue-tied around her! She’s so...she’s just so…”

"Threatening?”

“ _Intimidating._ In a strikingly untouchably gorgeous sort of way. I’m almost ready, I swear. I just want you to do me one more small favor. A little tiny one. Please?”

“Relating to Cassandra?” Varric said. “No hard feelings, but I think you’ve used up your quota of favors on that front. It was hard enough to -”

“I found a bottle of Hirol's Lava Burst in Crestwood. Help me again and it’s yours.”

* * *

 

And Varric had agreed, because a bottle of Hirol's Lava Burst is a thing of beauty and a joy forever, but also because he was a sucker. _Come along on our next mission and talk me up to Cassandra_ , Eian had said. _Make me sound impressive. It worked for Hawke!_

 _What makes you think she’ll listen to me?_ Varric had said, and Eian had said something very interesting: _She always listens to you. She doesn’t agree with you, but she always listens. Everyone does._

Having both his palate _and_ his ego catered to was too much to withstand, and so here he was, tromping through the Emerald Graves on their way to squelch the Freemen of the Dales, Eian and Sera bringing up the rear and Cassandra ahead of them all, sword drawn, slashing a path through the tangled woods.

How did he get himself into these things? It was his lot in life, it seemed. Find a soon-to-be-legendary figure, back ‘em up no matter how ridiculous the plan. Varric Tethras, wingman to heroes.

But did he really _want_ to see the Inquisitor and the Seeker become an item? He wanted the Inquisitor happy, at least. Eian had become almost as good a friend to him as Hawke - _almost_ \- and as unbowed as the young man managed to remain in the face of the veritable deluge of bullshit that kept (sometimes literally) raining from the heavens, Varric could see the cracks forming. The Inquisitor needed an unconditional ally and a relaxing distraction, and a romance would provide both. Why not Cassandra?

 _Because she’d chew him up and spit him out,_ Varric thought, _and complain about the gristle in the process._ Look at her, grimly hacking through the underbrush like it had done her a personal wrong. Would someone so inflexible and self-righteous be good for him? Poem or no poem, would she even be interested? What good would it do to make the Inquisitor sound impressive when you were dealing with someone who couldn’t be impressed?

But the terrible part - the _really_ terrible part - was thanks to writing that poem, Varric now knew exactly what Eian saw in her, and oh how he wished he didn’t.

Humans and elves weren’t his general type - they looked too fragile, almost doll-like in a way, and as for the height he’d never been one of those “the climb is half the fun” types. But _if_ he were into that sort of thing, the Seeker would probably be considered...empirically attractive. In certain ways. Trying to see Cassandra as a beautiful woman had been like looking at a picture of two candlesticks and watching it resolve into a vase...and similarly, now that he’d seen it, he couldn’t un-see it.

Even worse, he found he hadn’t had to refer back to Eian’s list of her other positive traits as much as he’d thought while writing that courting-poem. Getting into a character’s mindset was never that difficult for him, and uncomfortable as it was to put himself in the shoes of someone who thought Cassandra was the hottest thing on two overly-long legs, he’d done it, more easily than he’d thought, and he had been both pleased and alarmed with the results.

It was cloying, it was saccharine, it was just terrible enough to appeal to her, and Maker strike him dead if it didn’t sound _earnest_. He’d promptly named the poem “the Bad Idea Sonnet” and made Eian swear never to ask him to do it again.

And he wouldn’t have to. This was it. The last favor. After this, his liquor cabinet would be full up on exotic spirits, and Eian and the Seeker were on their own.

He stepped up beside the Seeker; she grimaced slightly. It always seemed to both surprise and annoy her that he could keep pace with her. “Dwarf,” she said.

“Human,” he said. “We should probably backtrack. I think there’s a leaf back there you forgot to stab. Did ground-cover insult your honor or something?”

“I warned you already, Varric, I’m in no mood. What do you want?”

“Just engaging in some friendly banter! Small talk. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“Of course. What other kind of talk would _you_ have?”

“Is that a dwarf joke? Because that’s a low blow.”

“It is _not._ It’s simply a remark on the...frivolity of your general conversation. There is a time and place, but this is is a military operation. We have better things to do than play ‘I Spy’.”

“Come on, Seeker. Give it a shot. I spy with my little eye…” He gestured expansively at the lush foliage through which they were currently proceeding. “Something green _._ ”

“ _Ugh._ ”

"Suit yourself,” Varric said. “Inquisitor, want to take a turn? You’re pretty good at this. Come on. Something green. ...Inquisitor?”

He glanced behind them. The Inquisitor, bringing up the rear, blinked like a nug in sunlight. He’d been in Lovesick Swain mode all day, turning red and stammering whenever Cassandra spoke to him. Apparently he had it worse than Varric had guessed.

“I, ah,” said Eian. “I. Um. I should probably… Sera’s not back from scouting yet, so you two go ahead and I’ll catch up with you at the rendezvous point.” He scurried off into the underbrush. Great. This wasn’t the first time he’d run off like a spooked horse today, to the point where Varric was beginning to worry about his combat readiness.

Varric sighed. Guess he’d better get the tall tales over with before Eian got back and screwed things up by being, well, himself.

“You know what this reminds me of?” he said. “That time Bull and the Inquisitor took down that dragon in Emprise du Lion. There it was, hanging overhead like a pissed-off thundercloud, wings blotting out the - “

“I was _there_ , Varric.”

“No, you were there when we killed the Gamordan Stormrider. I’m talking about the Highland Ravager - “

“I assure you, I was there. And please, save your dragon-slaying tales for the Herald’s Rest. I would prefer not to hear a blow-by-blow reenactment. My shoulder is still stiff.” She shifted a pauldron uncomfortably.

All right, so dragon-fighting heroics was out. Shit, he’d been counting on that story. What other exploits of the Inquisitor’s would impress Cassandra? That time he won eighteen sovereigns, a carriage and a small farm off of Josephine in Wicked Grace? No, he didn’t want to make his friend look like a conniving rogue, as accurate as that description was. How well Eian comported himself at the Winter Palace? Wouldn’t do, she loathed that entire scene. Their taste in art? Unfortunately, Eian was one of those despicable people who only read nonfiction. Varric racked his brain, and as he did so, he came to an uncomfortable realization.

Fact of the matter was: no matter what the Inquisitor thought he wanted, he and the Seeker were a terrible match. They just _were_. Varric had been hired to do a job, and he was going to do that job, but when it was done he was going to take Eian aside and try to talk him out of this whole mess, seriously this time.

He was still trying to come up with an angle when Cassandra stopped short. The Inquisitor and Sera were nowhere to be seen, and the forest was quiet, more or less. Something was rustling leaves in the distance, probably birds or some shit, who knows what nature gets up to.

“Speaking of the Inquisitor,” she said, “I have...an odd request. I expect you’ll refuse, but it could not hurt to ask.”

“Huh,” he said. “Now I’m curious. Fire away.”

“Have you noticed anything... _different_ about Lord Trevelyan lately? He seems...quiet. Melancholy, perhaps. As if he is carrying a great weight.”

Shit, she’d noticed Eian had gone all weird. Was that a bad thing? It was probably a bad thing. He’d try to spin it in a positive direction, and if the two of them actually ended up speaking to each other - “I don’t know,” Varric said, “he hasn’t seemed _upset_ about anything to me. _Distracted_ , maybe. Good distraction, bad distraction, who knows? If you’re concerned, you could ask him.”

“I only thought that since the two of you are - close - “

“Friends, you mean.”

“Yes. That.” She frowned at the toe of her boot. “I...understand how personal affairs may cause distractions. Right now, for example, I… Never mind.” He cheeks flushed red, and Varric had to keep himself from grinning.

“So?” he said. “I’m friends with the Inquisitor, but nothing’s stopping _you_ from being friends with him, either. Why don’t you ask him?”

“That...would not be my place. But I do have a request, as an officer of the Inquisition. If anything were to compromise his ability to lead, and if you knew what it was, I would appreciate it if, for the good of the Inquisition, you were to tell -”

Varric could not believe what he was hearing. “Here I thought you were worried about him,” he said, “but no, you’re just digging to find out if he’s too wobbly to inquisit because he almost shot Sera in the foot this morning. Come on, Seeker. That’s _cold._ ”

“That is not what I meant!” she said. Her cheeks were red. “I...worded that badly. Of _course_ I am concerned with his well-being! I’m simply saying -”

“Well, stop saying. I think you should know by now how it goes when you ask me to rat out my friends.”

“ _This_ again,” Cassandra said. This was not the direction he’d intended the conversation to go; he could tell she hadn’t wanted it to end up here either. And yet it had.  “What must one do, I wonder, to get on the list of people on whose behalf you will blatantly lie?”

“I thought we worked through this, Seeker,” he said, trying his best to stay calm in the face of this obvious provocation. Going back down this road would do no one any good. “Hawke was...special circumstances. I’m one of the good guys, remember?”

“I do believe that,” she said, although she didn’t sound like she meant it. “Not in the least because the Inquisitor is your friend, and so his cause is your cause. I understand that, and I accept it. But what if you were called upon to act for a higher purpose than survival or personal loyalty? To stand for an ideal? What would you do then, I wonder?”

The leaf-rustling noise in the underbrush was getting louder. Varric was almost too annoyed to notice it. “How many times are we going to have this fight?” he said. “Look, I’m sorry about the Hawke thing. I wrote you a whole damned book about how sorry I am!”

“And it was excellent and awful and I enjoyed it very much!” Cassandra snapped. Varric was a bit taken aback by the blunt admission, but before he could say anything, she plowed ahead. “But my point still stands!  If the Inquisition needs - “

She was angry now, and obviously enjoying it. If she were to have her portrait painted for posterity, Varric thought, she would be caught just like this, sun glinting off the keen edge of her sword, eyes alight with righteous fury: Woman in Armor, Shouting. And then right as Varric was about to continue shouting back, an uncomfortable perspective shift struck him - a two-candlesticks-become-a-face moment if there ever was one - and suddenly, she was _magnificent_.

It lasted a fraction of a moment, but the damage was done.

And that’s when the bear came crashing through the woods at them.

The Great Bears of Thedas are a somnolent species, by and large, but when their habitat is disturbed they are among the continent’s deadliest non-draconic fauna. They’re also much faster than they look. The bear barrelled towards them as if demons were on its tail, and Varric barely had time to dive behind a tree.

Cassandra, in its path, was not so lucky. She threw up her shield as it approached and reared; it swiped at her, and its heavy paw nearly knocked her staggering, but she held. As the bear reared again, she spun away from it in one smooth, spare move, and aimed for its neck.

The bear roared, wounded - but the sword-blade had barely penetrated its thick pelt. “I think you just made it angry!” Varric yelled from the shadows, loading an exploding bolt into Bianca. He fired; it hit the bear’s left thigh and left...not much of a scorch, really. What the hell were these things made of?

Cassandra huffed as she caught her breath, and he thought he caught a bit of an eye-roll - but then he was diving out of the bear’s way as it swatted at him. The usual stealth techniques don’t do much good when it comes to creatures with an acute sense of smell. Cassandra had used the opportunity to flank the beast, and aimed a slash at its belly - again, the bear roared, but the blade barely cut. Where were the Inquisitor and Sera?

The bear had focused on Cassandra again, and Varric used the opportunity to scramble for higher ground. Bolts rained down on the bear’s pelt as Cassandra fought off the beast, her moves fierce, spare, graceful, like a sinuous dance of no no not _now_ , this is _not_ the time to start using positive adjectives to describe Cassandra Pentaghast, not in the middle of _oh shit_.

One heavy swat had connected with Cassandra’s sword arm. She staggered, barely hanging onto the blade, and fell back; she seemed to be protecting her shoulder. The bear roared, teeth bared. It raised its paw, about to strike again -

\- and toppled back, startled, as the crossbow bolt went through its eye.

The bear gave one last labored growl and fell silent. Cassandra looked up at Varric with an expression halfway between gratitude and irritation. “I _had_ it,” she insisted.

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “But you know what, Seeker? Contrary to whatever you might think about me, I’ve always got your back.”

He shouldered Bianca, and without so much as a backward glance, left the bear carcass to Cassandra and went off to look for the damned Inquisitor.

* * *

 

The party was reunited; battle stories were told; and everyone made it back to camp alive, if dirty and, in Cassandra’s case, sore, although a potion made short work of the bear damage. Cassandra and Varric were both well out of range when the Inquisitor cornered Sera that night.

“You _drove a bear at them!_ ” Eian said. “Phase Two was ‘take them along on all the missions and make them talk to each other’. It wasn’t ‘set a dangerous beast on them’!”

“Well, I didn’t _set_ it on them, did I?” Sera said, indignant. “I just, y’know, got behind it, and made some noise, and then it did what it wanted, right? Not on me to tell a bear what to do.”

“That could have ended _very badly_! It was incredibly dangerous! Not to mention unfair!”

“I know,” Sera said. “Poor bear. Didn’t stand a chance.” She cocked an eyebrow at the Inquisitor. “Worked, though, didn’t it? Did you hear Varric? ‘I’ve always got your back, Seeker.’” She snickered. “I’ll just bet he does. Do they listen to themselves when they talk?”

“I suppose it did work,” the Inquisitor said. “More or less. I’d just appreciate it if you kept your methods a little less deadly, all right?” He sighed. “Now what’s next? I think he’s sold - you heard him back there - but she’s definitely a harder nut to crack.”

“I still say we just steal their clothes and lock ‘em in a storeroom.”

“That’s your answer to everything. No, we’ve got to get HER interested. And I’ve got just the idea.”

 


	4. Intermission: The Viper of Rialto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all you intelligent and attractive readers, you! The next chapter is on its way shortly, I promise - the day job has been frantic lately - but in the meantime, please enjoy this brief excerpt from one of Varric's WIPs.
> 
> The language will be a bit saltier from here on out, so the fic is now rated "M" for "you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

**The Viper of Rialto**

by Varric Tethras

 

 The story of one man's meteoric rise and fall through the sordid world of Antivan merchant banking. 

 

**Chapter 3**

 "Fuck!" shouted Octavio. "I told you to sell, not buy! Do you know how much money you just fucking lost us?" He threw his glass of some kind of really expensive whiskey at the rich mahogany bookcase. The glass shattered. Octavio's subordinates cowered against the mahogany door of his office. It was a ~~big-ass~~ vast, luxurious office, as befitted the head of the Orecciette family, the third most powerful banking family in Antiva.

Soon to be fourth if these fucking morons had anything to say about it. One of them, Octavio couldn't remember his name, spoke up. "But you told us - "

"I don't fucking care what I fucking told you to fucking do!" Octavio roared. He threw a priceless Rivaini vase at the idiot's head; it connected, and the lackey fell to the ground in a shower of porcelain fragments. "Only some kind of fucking head-up-their-ass shitstain would buy instead of sell! Now get the fuck out of my office!" As his staff scrambled for the door, he swept a pile of papers off his mahogany desk in rage. It didn't matter. He'd have an intern pick it all up later. 

Once he was alone, Octavio loosened the collar of his ~~three-thousand-royal~~  six-thousand-royal Nevarran suit, sighed, and sat down in his rich leather and mahogany chair, gazing out the window of his office. The city of Rialto was spread out below him, its golden domes hiding what a cesspool it really was. _His_ cesspool.

He put his head in his hands. It would never be enough. Fuck.

* * *

_A note in a fine aristocratic hand:_

 Much more authentic than the last draft! I see you have incorporated my notes. But a Nevarran suit? Really? The head of an Antivan bank would never be seen in less than the latest from Val Royeaux.

_A note in a broad scrawl, accompanied by a drawing of an elephant - wait, that's not an elephant!_

NEEDS MORE FUCKS.


	5. Investigation: Skyhold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, dear good readers: despite recent appearances, this isn't going to be one of those stories that just peters out. I've written the epilogue, for Maker's sake. I can't just let it sit there on my hard drive and not USE it.

“I know that look,” Leliana said. “You have something on your mind, don’t you?”

Cassandra had thought long and hard before resorting to this. She was many things, but subtle was not one of them; and this investigation might take a more delicate touch than she was capable of. She sat down on the bench next to Leliana, dislodging two rooks who flapped off, cawing irritably. “I….” she began, and then sighed. “This is going to be a bit embarrassing. And frivolous. And a waste of both our time. Can I trust you?”

“Always,” said Leliana, with that small, cool, secret smile of hers. “Is this about the poem?”

“What?” gasped Cassandra. “How… how do you…”

Leliana shrugged. “You forget my profession,” she said. Then she smiled -  more warmly this time, a smile Cassandra did not see often on the Left Hand’s face these days. “Also collaring Dorian in the hallway was probably not the best choice if you wanted to keep things quiet. He’s not stupid, you know. I...had a conversation with him regarding how he might want to keep his speculation to himself.”

“ _Thank_ you.” Cassandra sighed. “The last thing I want is for word of... _this_...to spread through half the keep.” She rubbed her temples. “I should apologize to Dorian. I was simply unnerved by the note.”

“Unnerved?”

“This is not something I encounter every day,” Cassandra said. “And it begs action. If this is a joke - and it may very well be - then it is a cruel one. Cruelty deserves an answer.”

Leliana nodded firmly. “I don’t disagree.”

“But,” Cassandra said, almost as if she was ashamed of herself for thinking it - “if it is in earnest, I would be...curious as to the author.”

Leliana’s smile was positively impish now. “Perhaps more than curious?”

“That remains to be seen,” Cassandra said stiffly. “Would you...assist me with the investigation? If your duties don’t permit, I completely understand -”

Leliana laughed, a sound like a bell. “Cassandra,” she said, “a herd of druffalo couldn’t tear me away from this. Now, let us begin. May I see the verse in question?”

Cassandra handed it over. Leliana read through it. “Oh my,” she said.

“I know! Isn’t it...” Moving. Exhilarating. “Pretty?”

“It is,” Leliana said, “but that’s not what I mean. This handwriting...it’s particularly fine, is it not? But quite old-fashioned. Archaic, even. Also note the sketch of a flower in the margin. One doesn’t often see work like this outside an illuminated manuscript.”

“Are you saying that I’ve somehow attracted the attentions of an ancient monk?”

Leliana narrowed her eyes. “Close enough,” she said.

* * *

“Yes, I wrote it,” Solas said calmly. Behind Leliana, Cassandra sighed and sank down on a bench, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She should have known it was a joke. She should have known. Not that Solas joked, but he had to have some unsavory reason to - unless, no, he couldn’t _possibly_ -

“By which I mean, I copied it,” he continued, and Cassandra felt hope stir in her breast again. “I do some scribe-work from time to time. One must make one’s living, even at Skyhold, and potion herbs are not cheap.”

Leliana nodded. “I understand,” she said. “Can you tell us who hired you?”

Solas shook his head. “I would if I could. However, the original simply appeared on my desk one day, with an attached note instructing me to copy it, leave it on my desk the following night, and burn the original and the letter. In return I’d be paid handsomely.”

“Did you burn it? And were you paid?”

“Of course I did. And yes, I was. A pouch of fresh Dawn Lotus was left at the door of my quarters the following morning, picked a day ago at the most. Extraordinary payment for such a simple job.” He blinked, his smile deceptively pleasant. “I take it the final recipient of the poem was you, Cassandra? I surmised as much from the line about the scar -”

Cassandra pushed past Leliana, reaching for Solas’ collar - but at a warning glance from the spymaster, she stepped back, fuming. “Tell a soul about this, elf,” she said, “and I won’t be responsible for - “

Leliana laid a calming hand on her colleague’s shoulder. “Thank you, Solas,” she said, “that will be all.” She leaned in close. “But Lady Cassandra is correct. Tell one person about this - “

“I completely understand,” he said hurriedly. “Far be it from me to remain involved in what is clearly a very personal affair.” He raised an eyebrow. “But Cassandra, I fail to see what’s so upsetting about the situation. I thought it quite a charming piece. Gifts of poetry are a rich tradition in many cultures, including -”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise and stalked out of the rotunda. Leliana gave Solas one last pointed glance - _I’m watching you, monsieur_ \- and followed.

* * *

 

Leliana had deduced that the only place Solas could have gotten day-old Dawn Lotus was from the expedition that had returned from Crestwood the previous afternoon - an expedition whose leader was turning out to be far from a hard nut to crack.

“That thing?” Harding said cheerfully. “Oh, yeah, that’s taken care of. I’ve got to admit, those were some weird instructions, but we all know that when you get a bird from Lady Nightingale you don’t ask questions.” She smiled hopefully. “But if you wanted to _answer_ questions, I mean, I’m not going to ask, but...of all the weird things I’ve had to do for the Inquisition, that was one of them. Not quite up there with breaking down dragon heads for parts, but odd.”

“What do you mean, _a bird from Lady Nightingale_?” Leliana said. Her voice was calm enough, but there was a ribbon of steel through it that put even Cassandra on edge.

“The rook? With the message?” Harding said, confused. “Unless someone else is sending birds around with messages in Inquisition code. I got the flowers, I wrote the note, I put the thing on... the recipient’s desk, I didn’t open the envelope…” She paused. “You mean you didn’t send it.”

Leliana’s expression had gone grim again. “Perhaps I did and perhaps I did not,” she said. “If you receive any further correspondence, Scout, please see me personally.” She gave the scout a curt nod and strode off, Cassandra in her wake.

The two women said nothing of note until they had reached the rookery. Cassandra sat down tensely on a bench, leaned back, hands steepled. “So someone has broken our code,” she said flatly.

“Not in the least,” Leliana said. “If someone had, I would already know. No, you know what this means as well as I do.”

“Inside job?”

“Inside job.” Leliana settled into the window seat. A raven hopped up onto her knee; she petted its shining black head absently. Inexplicably, a hint of a smile was returning to her features, but for some reason this made Cassandra more, not less, apprehensive. “This is someone we know. Perhaps someone we know well. Someone willing to have some fun at _my_ expense, meaning someone _breathtakingly_ arrogant.”

“That fails to narrow it down. We are surrounded by the breathtakingly arrogant.”

“Indeed,” Leliana said. “Perhaps we should take the investigation in a different direction. Perhaps we should focus less on who did write it and more on who _would_ write it. And who _could_.”  She shifted; the bird, startled, hopped up on the ledge and flapped its way out the window into the cold ice-blue sky. “I believe the next place we should visit is the Herald’s Rest, in order to interview Skyhold’s resident wordsmith.”

The blood had drained from Cassandra’s face. “No,” she said, slightly strangled. “No, we most definitely should _not_. I will not even entertain -”

“I was talking about Maryden. Who did you think I was talking about?” Leliana said, much too innocently.


	6. Stranger Than Fiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing fast and loose with party banter in this chapter! Good times.

“I’m the Inquisitor,” shouted Eian, “and this is my favorite tavern in Skyhold!”

“This is the only tavern in Skyhold!” some wag shouted from the end of the bar.

“Details, details.” Eian stepped onto a bench, arms raised like a king before battle - which, Cassandra supposed, was close enough to what he actually was. “Cabot, a round for everyone before we begin!” There was a pause, a quiet beat, and Cassandra noticed Eian’s eyes widen in brief alarm (had he expected a laugh, rather than reverent silence?) before the Herald’s Rest erupted in wild cheers.

“Before what begins?” Cassandra asked Leliana, as the two women elbowed their way through the crowd to an area near the hearth, where the tables and chairs had been cleared out for some reason. Spectators were gathered on benches, enjoying flagons of what was probably not Cabot’s best ale.

“Amateur Night,” Leliana said. “It was Maryden’s idea. Showcase the diverse talents of the folk of the Inquisition, she said. But I believe she just wants a night off. I don’t blame her. Performing for an audience is harder work than it appears.”

“Do you miss it at all?” Cassandra said, as a barmaid with Dalish vallaslin strolled by and handed her a mug of said not-quite-best ale.

“Sometimes,” Leliana said. “I did ask Maryden once if I could participate, but she pointed out that it is _Amateur_ Night. Letting me sing would be like letting Varric compete in an archery contest.”

Cassandra eyed the makeshift stage. Off to the side, a Dalish man was setting up a waist-high harp, a couple of Fereldan soldiers were tuning their pipes and drums, and a scrawny young recruit with too much eye makeup was nervously clutching what was probably some very terrible poetry.

Speaking of poetry. And speaking of… no. She wasn’t going to ask. Wait. She HAD to ask. How could she not ask? It was… It was _intolerable_ , is what it was. The mere thought was intolerable.

But what did those mysteries Dorian had lent her say? _Once you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._ And it was definitely possible. There was the opportunity - he did know the Inquisition’s code, and he did maintain at least one agent among Leliana’s people, in a friendly spymaster-to-spymaster kind of way - and there was definitely the means. As for motive… well. She knew he was a liar, but she hadn’t thought he had such cruelty in him, especially since his peace offering of terrible literature. Then again: he did have a way of disappointing her.

She steeled herself. “Speaking of,” she said, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “You don’t think it could be…”

“Who?” Leliana said innocently.

“Ugh. You know who!”

Leliana laughed. “I was wondering when you’d go there. I will say, he’s on our short list, but by no means the most likely suspect.” She gave Cassandra a sidelong glance. “I must ask you. What would you say if it was the Inquisitor?”

“What?” Cassandra said, truly stunned. “He… No! He would never. Would he? He wouldn’t.” Her friend laughed, which only flustered Cassandra further. Maker, how ridiculous this all was! “I’ve never thought… He is the Inquisitor! Andraste’s instrument among us. Truly, no. I have never thought.”

“I’m not saying have you suspected it was him. I’m saying, what would you think if it was him?”

Cassandra thought for a moment. “He is a handsome man,” she said, a bit wistfully. “And charming, certainly. There is a strength about him, and more integrity than he thinks he possesses.” She sighed. “But Maker’s breath, Leliana. He’s twelve years old!”

“Twenty-three.”

“Close enough. And Josephine would never forgive me. You’ve seen how she looks at him.”

“Fair enough.” The room was practically buzzing now, and the benches were starting to fill. “In my opinion, we should speak to Maryden before we continue our investigation. Right now, she is suspect number one. And if it isn’t her, she may know whose work this is.” Leliana sat, nodding to Cassandra. “Let’s find her after the show. But for now - shall we?”

“Ugh. All right,” Cassandra said. An evening of rank amateurs playing badly upon the fat lute was far from her idea of a good time, but whatever was in her flagon was curiously warming, and the crowd’s enthusiasm was infectious. She settled into her seat, and mere moments later felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to find Dorian and the Bull, seated with the Chargers and, incongruously, Cullen. The Inquisition’s general seemed to start upon seeing her: “Ah, Seeker,” he said, nervously. “It’s… a bit surprising to see you here.”

“Likewise,” Cassandra said, noting the the blush rising in his face. (What if it’s him? she thought, and filed that thought away for later: however else she felt about it, he was quite good-looking, she must admit.) “I suppose we must all take a night off now and then.”

The Bull slapped Cullen on the back; Cullen nearly choked on his ale. “Oh, he’s here every week,” he said cheerfully. “Wouldn’t miss it. He’s a big fan! Almost as big a fan as you are, I hear.”

“You’re coming to book club next week, aren’t you, Commander?” Dorian said. “You must. I need someone to help me talk them out of _Love Among the Runes_.”

“What, the mage/templar serial?” Cullen said. “I agree. It’s awful. Now, a good city guard procedural is much more…” He glanced at Cassandra and Leliana and trailed off, embarrassed. “I mean. I may stop by. If I have time.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Leliana said, and Cassandra did not have time to ask “a big fan of what?” before Maryden stepped into the firelight and announced the Fereldan soliders. In moments the sound of drums, pipes, and several more soldiers performing a dance with altogether too much stomping drowned out any attempt at conversation.

Polite applause followed. Then Maryden gestured to the shadows beside the stage and cried out, “And now, our resident storyteller, with a sneak peak at Chapter 8 of _Hard in Hightown: A Good Day to Siege Hard!_ ”

“That’s just the working title,” a familiar voice said, before being drowned out by whoops and applause. Cassandra felt her blood pressure rise just a bit as Varric stepped onto the makeshift stage, holding a few pages filled to the margins with his cramped handwriting. He certainly didn’t look like an impressive enough figure to merit the crowd reacting like the home cheering squad at a championship tournament.

He raised a hand. The atmosphere in the tavern seemed to shift suddenly, and the room fell silent.

“As always,” he said, with that small bow of his that Cassandra always found too close to condescending, “your local author is astounded - nay, humbled - by your enthusiasm.” He shuffled the pages. “Now where were we? I believe the last time we saw Brennokovic, he was getting the shit kicked out of him in the alley behind Kanarr the Eel’s warehouse. Everybody with me?”

“Have him kick Kanarr’s ass!” someone shouted from the back.

“Kill Kanarr!” someone shouted from the back.

“Kill Brennokovic!” someone else yelled, followed by laughter.

“Don’t tempt me,” Varric said, and the laughter died down quickly. Everyone knew Varric wasn’t above killing off the hero. He’d famously had to hire a bodyguard after he killed off Serafina in volume 2 of _The Hills of Starkhaven_. (Cassandra had overheard him talking about it once; it turned out the bodyguard was just Hawke, and “hiring” her meant he bought her drinks for a week, but the story sounded better the other way, and that was all that ever mattered to him.)

“All right, if you’re all done, let’s get going.” He glanced at his draft, then up at the room again, and again there was that feeling as if he’d gathered the room’s attention like a handful of strings and pulled. “ _Brennokovic grunted as the Carta thug’s boot connected with his ribcage. The dirty gravel of the street grated against his cheek as Jennik’s other henchman grabbed him by the feet and dragged him, half-conscious, into the -_ “

His eyes scanned the silent, rapt crowd. Did they stop on Cassandra for a fraction of a second? No, she was imagining things.

“You know what,” he said, “I think we’re gonna try something different tonight.” The crowd groaned; there were a few halfhearted boos from the back. “Yeah, yeah, I know you love your grievous bodily harm, but I’ve got something else I’ve been working on. It’s an Orlesian serial - “

Half cheers and half boos from the crowd. “No, look, this is some good shit. Drama, betrayal. Thieves and assassins. Intrigues. Enough murder to keep my bloodthirstiest fans happy.” He reviewed the crowd again, and again Cassandra couldn’t shake the feeling that he had looked right at her - but that was probably just a crowdpleasing trick of his. He was quite good at this. “But most of all: romance.”

Was he writing another romance? Cassandra felt a small kick of excitement, despite herself. It might not be _Swords and Shields_ , but - She caught herself. She should not be so excited over the mere potential of a trashy book! But a vice is a vice.

“Picture this,” Varric said. “A scenic chateau in the hills near Aitres, on the shores of Lake Avandine. Where wild things once roamed free, tame peacocks now strut, their wings clipped. And inside the chateau, a contingent of the Court of the Empress Celene I, their hopes and ambitions and bitter hatreds concealed by masks. But can these masks truly hide the darkness in the hearts of those who play the Game?”

Varric’s voice rose and fell smoothly, as if he were reading from the page, but his draft was sitting on a stool, forgotten. Hands in his pockets, he paced across the stage, stopping every now and again to gauge the crowd’s reaction or emphasize a dramatic turn of phrase. Cassandra was absolutely fascinated. No wonder he was able to lie to her with a straight face. The man was a real professional.

And how did he remember all this? Did he have it memorized or was he making it up as he went along? In any case, this wasn’t bad!  As Varric continued, she listened, rapt. Apparently the third son of the Comte d’Autrechose’s lover had turned out to be an assassin in disguise. As has been known to happen.

“ _‘Sent to kill me?’ Aurelian said. His voice was sad, resigned. ‘I knew this was coming. I knew it could be anyone.’ He turned to de Quelquefois, his eyes sorrowful. ‘I just never thought it would be you.’_

_“‘It’s what I do,’ the Marquis said. ‘It’s what I am meant to do. Do you think I was born to House Quelquefois? Do you think I am the true Marquis?’ Bitterness laced his words, but the point of the knife held steady against Aurelian’s throat. ‘If I could… If I were someone who could…’ The knife shook, ever so slightly. ‘But I am not meant for that sort of happiness.’_

“ _‘Are our roles decreed by the Maker?’ Aurelian said, his voice gentle, as if he were not trying to talk a man out of his own murder. ‘Are we who we are told to be? Or do we choose?’ Slowly, he reached his lace-gloved hand towards his lover -_

“‘ _It is the Game!’_

“ _‘Then we shall not play!’ Aurelian’s hand gripped the Marquis’. Together they lowered the knife, both breathing heavily and strangely aroused. ‘Come with me, Charles. Come with me away from all this. We’ll go to Ferelden, Nevarra - anywhere but here - ‘_

“ _‘Yes,’ whispered the Marquis. ‘Maker, yes. I see clearly now. For you I will abandon this, for you I will do anything, anything - ‘_

“ _He gasped suddenly, a gasp of shock and pain. Looking down at himself, he saw his knife, buried deep in his own chest._

“ _‘I’m sorry,’ murmured Aurelian. ‘I’m so, so sorry. But you’re correct. It is the Game.’” There were tears in his eyes as he pulled the knife from his lover’s chest, as the Marquis fell limply to the ground. ‘And when you play the Game, you win…’ He gently raised one of his gloves to his lips, removed it, and placed it in the dying Marquis’ hand. ‘Or you don’t.’”_

There was a long pause. “And that’s it,” Varric said. His usual wry tone: he was no longer the narrator, just himself again. “That’s all I’ve got so far. What do you think? Would you pay half a sov for it?”

The following applause seemed to be all the answer he needed. He grinned, gathered up his notes, and with a bow, walked off to the bar. Back on stage, an apprentice mage with a tambourine was looking dejected - of course she would, having to follow the local favorite.

“Cassandra?” Leliana said. “Are you all right?”

“I - yes, of course,” Cassandra said. She shook her head a bit. She’d gotten so caught up in Varric’s reading that she’d lost track of time. For a few moments she’d almost been there, in the chateau garden at night with the doomed lovers - “I simply… Does he do this every week?”

“Usually,” Dorian said. “Unless he’s off with the Inquisitor killing things. Or when Bianca was in town.” He shrugged. “Although I suppose that last one won’t be occurring again any time soon. Poor sod. I see where he gets his knack for tragic romance.”

Hm. Cassandra had never thought of it that way. Certainly the man was turning out to have hidden depths - No, she was not going to think about that right now. Especially not while the author in question was heading towards her, pushing his way through the crowd to reach…

...the bar. Yes. Of course. He was headed for the bar. Where else would he be going?

Still, though. She might as well congratulate him on a story well told. So far, every time one of them had held out an olive branch, the other had set it on fire; perhaps it was time to truly begin to bridge the gap. And, also, perhaps Dorian was right and being nicer to him could result in more volumes of _Swords and Shields_. She found her way through the crowd and found him at the end of the bar, holding court. He started with surprise when he saw her, then gestured to the seat next to him. She sat down, stiffly.

“Varric,” she said. “That was...quite an interesting performance.”

“Seeker,” Varric said. “What did you think? Cliched and melodramatic enough for you?”

“Quite,” she said. “You didn’t have any notes. Were you just making it up as you went along?”

“...Yes?” He shrugged. “You know that’s what I do. Tall tales, while you wait. The Varric Tethras guarantee.”

“How do you even _do_ that?”

“How do I _not_ do that?” he said. “Might as well ask you how you know how to fight. You’ve got your skill, and training, and armor and weapons - but deep down, it’s what you are.” He shrugged. “And this is what I am.”

“That’s what you think I am?”

“Aren’t you?” He took a long drink of ale. “Fighting dragons. Injustice. Your friends, sometimes. How did we get on this topic?”

“I just… It’s fascinating, to see you pull stories from thin air.”

“Oh, I never do that. Any writer who tells you they do that is a bigger liar than me. You know what they say: Write what you know.”

Indeed, Cassandra thought. The ale was still warm in her veins; here in the light and noise of the Herald’s Rest, among her friends - their friends - she couldn’t help but feel something a bit like camaraderie. The words that she reread again and again, the stories that made her heart twist in so bittersweet a way - is this where he got them, then? From his own love, from his own loss?

She ventured. “Am I to understand… Your Bianca. She is married?”

And regretted it instantly. Varric visibly winced. The temperature seemed to drop a degree. “Oh,” he said, his voice edged with that cold mockery she had not missed in the least. “Are we at the stage where we’re gossiping about each other’s love lives now?” He elbowed Blackwall, who was sitting to his left, brooding as usual into a mug of who knows what. “Did you hear that, Hero? Don’t worry, I’ll tell you whatever she says.”

“Forget I said anything,” Cassandra said, instantly defensive. “It was a simple question.”

“There’s nothing simple about it.” He took a drink, and Cassandra realized that neither of them was quite all the way sober. “Does that mean I can ask about your conquests?”

“I would rather you didn’t.”

“Any tantalizing secrets to divulge?”

“No,” she said, more emphatically than she’d intended. “I have no conquests.”

“Dalliances? Liasons? Illicit affairs?”

“None.” She pushed back her stool and stood. “This is… not a conversation I want to have. Good night, Varric.”

“‘Night, Seeker,” Varric called as Cassandra stormed towards the door. “Be sure to tell me about any amorous adventures you happen to have on the way out! I need material for my next book.”

Leliana was waiting for her at the door, Maryden in tow. “I should have known,” Cassandra spat. “I should have known better than to try to have a civilized conversation with…” She took a deep breath, the anger dissipating. “I probably should not have asked him about Bianca, true. But still! He - “

Leliana put a calming hand on Cassandra’s arm. “Here’s Maryden,” she said. “I believe we can trust her. Shall we show her the document in question?”

“What document?” the minstrel said. “I don’t - Oh! This is about the poem, isn’t it?”

Cassandra threw up her hands. “Ugh! Does _everyone_ know?” she said.

“I heard it from Sera,” Maryden said. “You’re searching for the author? As somewhat of a figure among the poets and artists of Skyhold - “ Cassandra carefully refrained from rolling her eyes - “ I might be able to recognize the style. Let me see.” She snatched the paper from Leliana, reviewed it for a moment, and frowned.

“Well?”

“It’s quite good,” Maryden said, reluctantly. “Which means that it isn’t anyone I know. With all due humility, the only poet in the keep who could write this is me. And I’m…” She shot a brief, longing glance at Sera. “Otherwise occupied.”

“Good,” Cassandra said. “No one you know. That’s progress, at least. Leliana, I believe we’re done here -”

“...Varric doesn’t write poetry, does he?” Leliana said casually. Cassandra groaned inwardly. She’d hoped to get out the door before anyone asked that question.

“Oh, no,” Maryden said. “Strictly prose. I think I heard him recite a limerick once.” She shrugged. “Although I’m certain he would write anything, if enough money were involved.”

“Hmmm,” Leliana said. “Work for hire. That could certainly be -”

“Then it’s not him,” Cassandra said firmly. “Varric doesn’t need money. Leliana! Let’s go. I believe we should discuss our list of suspects.”

“Thank you, Maryden,” Leliana said. “If you have any further insights, please let me or the Seeker know.” She smiled, thin and sharp as a knife. “And please, don’t spread the story any further, if you don’t mind.” Leaving the minstrel in their wake, Cassandra and Leliana stepped out into the snowy night.

“Useless,” Cassandra said. “I don’t know why we bothered. Of course she wasn’t going to have any information -”

Leliana caught her arm. “Cassandra,” she said quietly. “We didn’t find much, but let’s not discount what we did find. If it is -”

“It’s not him.”

“It may not be. It likely isn’t. But - “

“It’s not him,” Cassandra snapped.

“Very well,” Leliana said, putting a calming hand on her friend’s shoulder. “If you say so.”

* * *

Varric was brooding. He wasn’t a brooder, per se - not like Blackwall, that guy knew how to work the melancholic streak - but now was as good a time to start as any. Here he thought the Seeker would appreciate the impromptu program change, and for a moment there it looked like she had, and then she had to go and get all judgmental about his (ex?) lover’s unfortunate marital state, and wasn't that just sticking the knife in. Well, whatever. The Seeker could take her uptight disapproval and shove it -

“What was that about?” Dorian said, sliding into the seat next to him.

“She poked a sore spot,” Varric said bleakly. “I bit her head off. Standard Wednesday night.”

“You two certainly do know how to say the worst possible things to each other,” Dorian said. “You might want to rein in that impulse. I believe Eian’s going to ask you for another favor.”

Varric groaned. “I’m not doing his dirty work for him anymore. Tell him to suck it up, buy some flowers, and just go for it. I’m out. For real this time”

“What do you mean, you’re out?” Eian said, coming up behind them. “Look, Varric, we’re on top of our game here. We’re so close to winning her over! That Orlesian thing? A stroke of genius!”

(“Genius isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Dorian muttered.)

“She loved it,” Eian went on, wistfully. “She absolutely adored it. Did you see the look on her face?”

Varric had indeed seen it. He had, in fact, been watching her quite closely as he spun the tale of the doomed Marquis and his lover. If he had to admit to himself that the whole story had been for her benefit - well. It hadn’t. He’d been planning to run the Orlesian thing by the peanut gallery soon, anyway. This just seemed like a good time, was all.

“Either way,” Varric said, “I’m done now. Did you notice she’s got Leliana working with her on finding out who wrote the damned thing? I think I covered my tracks well enough, but it won't last. Neither of us is long for this world if you don’t come out and take credit, soon.”

“Almost ready,” Eian said. “I’m almost almost ready! And I completely understand why you wouldn’t want to keep it up. We’re just so close, Varric. I think she’s hooked. And also, I found something interesting the other day. _Very_ interesting.”

He placed something on the table. A small, dark glass bottle. Droplets of water had condensed on the side; the contents were pitch-black, ice-cold, and legendary.

“Golden Scythe 4:90 Black,” Varric breathed.

“The very thing,” Eian said. “And yours. All of it. Just one more poem. Please. Win her over for me, and I’ll owe you for the rest of my life. How about this time it’s _extra_ romantic? Can you do extra romantic?”  

Varric put his head in his hands. Why? Why did this keep happening to him? Why did the Inquisitor think he had any power to -

He thought of the Seeker’s face, more open and eager than he’d ever seen it, eyes alight as he spun his tale - and then he shoved that thought way way down and buried it deep. Well, now he had to do it. One final push. If only to foist her off onto the Inquisitor and get thoughts like that out of his head.

And even if it didn’t work. At the very least, the look on her face, once she saw what he came up with this time -

“You want extra romantic?” Varric said, making up his mind. “You do realize who you’re asking, don’t you?” He flipped over page 3 of his draft of Hard in Hightown, pulled out a pencil and started scribbling. “I’m going to need about a week and half and some supplies. What’s my budget?”

Dorian beamed. “Let the games begin,” he said.


	7. Intermission: The Most Dangerous Game

The Most Dangerous Game

by Varric Tethras

 

Chapter 8

The Duchess was waiting for Sylvie outside the second guest parlor, astonishing as always in ~~some sort of floaty white thing~~ an embroidered eggshell-white winter gown with chiffon overskirt. Sylvie herself had worn what the Duchess had suggested, ~~I don’t know, a dress~~ a morning-dress in sober grey silk, her hair arranged in severe braids that added years to her youthful face.

“Remember, dear,” the Duchess said, “do not bend, do not bow. A lady does not go back on her word. And you have given your word to the Comte.”

“I know,” Sylvie whispered. “I’m ready.” Opening the parlor door, she strode forward with much more confidence than she felt.

Garet rose to his feet when he saw her, eyes drinking her in like an oasis in the desert. An uncommonly ~~handsome~~ ~~short~~ handsome man, he looked even more rakish than usual in his boots with too many buckles and ~~really great~~ dubious leather coat of a flashy cut one only sees among the lower classes. An affectation, Sylvie knew; he was as highborn as she. Or was, until his father’s disgrace.

“Sylvie,” he murmured, and moved to take her in his arms. It took all she had to step back.

“I’m not here for that,” she said haughtily. _Be cold_ , the Duchess had told her. _Be immovable. It will make it easier._

“Then what are you here for?” he said, hurt - and then his face fell as the realization struck him. “You’ve accepted the Comte, haven’t you.”

Sylvie nodded. “It’s - it’s not - I don’t - “ She took a deep breath. “It’s not about love, Garet. The Comte’s fortune will save my family. What would become of my father if I don’t do this? My sisters? The house of Autrechose will fall -”

“Then let it fall!” Garet said, impassioned. “We’ll run away. Go as far as we can from all this posturing and betrayal. We’ll make a home for ourselves -”

“Where?” said Sylvie sharply. “In a room above a tavern? On some smuggler’s ship? On, Maker forbid, a _farm_? That may be the life you choose, but it’s not mine. I’m not here to discuss this.” She softened, faltered. “I’m here to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Garet said desperately. “We swore we would never - This isn’t you!” He reached out for her hand, and against every bit of her rational self telling her how wrong she was, she let him take it. “This is her. She’s gotten to you. Don’t you see what she’s trying to do?”

“She has my best interest at -”

“Duchess Genevieve has no one’s best interest at heart but her own!” Garet said. “She’s using you! If you can’t see that now, then you will soon. And I’ll be waiting when you do.” He held her hand in both of his, pressed a desperate kiss to her palm. “I swear to the Maker Himself, as long as you have the slightest trace of feeling left for me, I _will not_ give you up.”

Sylvie was trembling. Her head was spinning. Had she made the wrong decision? Was she giving up her only chance at happiness? Should she -

The door swung open dramatically, and the Duchess stood there, smiling faintly, flanked by two palace guards. “Ah yes. Lord de Ronfleur,” she said. “I believe you are mistaken. You have no choice but to give her up.” She gestured lazily. “Guards.”

Garet was fast, but the guards were faster. One guard took each arm, and as her love struggled and cursed, they dragged him bodily from the room. “Sylvie! I’ll find you! I’ll always find you!” he cried as the door slammed behind them.

“He’s right,” the Duchess said. She turned to Sylvie. Tears were streaming from the girl’s eyes; the older woman put a reassuring hand on her shoulder (carefully, so as not to scuff her manicure).  “He won’t give you up. Such a stubborn young gentleman. But if, for example, there were such a thing as an order of exile…”

“You wouldn’t!” gasped Sylvie.

“I already have, darling,” the Duchess said. “Drastic, true, but I know his type. It’s so much better for them to lose hope right away and move on, rather than hanging sadly around the edge of one’s life, hoping for something that will never happen. Don't you want him to be happy someday?” One of the guards handed her a sheet of paper and a quill pen. Apparently she’d had this whole scene prepared. “Don’t look so horrified, my dear. It’s just an order forbidding him from Val Royeaux, it’s not a contract on his life.” She smiled, a smile like a very elegant and expensive knife. “Yet.”

“And you want me to…?”

“Sign it,” the Duchess said. “As a witness. When he sees your name on that document, he’ll give you up for good. It’s the only way, darling.”

Sylvie took a shuddering breath. The Duchess was right, she thought. She was always right. Sylvie reached for the paper and ~~crumpled it and threw it in the fire~~

~~came to her senses and ran away in horror~~

hand shaking, picked up the pen and

 

fuck it, I can’t do this today

 

* * *

_Note in a graceful, flowing hand:_

 Varric. My dear. I assume from the tacky exclamation at the end that you did not mean to show me such an early draft of this chapter. Might I offer a suggestion?

Resist the urge to make Garet a tragic pining suitor. It’s boring, darling, and so predictable. The man is a lout, but he has some endearing qualities, and it would be a shame to waste an interesting character on a tired cliche.

But on a more important note: the fashion. I applaud you for tackling a subject so far out of your realm of experience, but I suggest you apply your research with more care. An Orlesian audience will easily believe an outlandish plot and ludicrous dialogue, but they will never believe a Duchess would wear chiffon in the winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric has written many versions of this scene, in many books, in many different ways. Sometimes she refuses him to his face, sometimes in a tear-stained letter; sometimes thugs drag him out, sometimes he storms off, cursing her and all she stands for. Sometimes they run off to elope; sometimes they make it, but far more often they don’t. A good portion of the time, he’s the one who refuses her. 
> 
> As often as he has written and rewritten this scenario, to date no version of it has ever appeared in print.


	8. A Conversation in the War Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Josie/Quizzy to cleanse the palate, then a quick and ridiculous return to our regularly scheduled shipment. Also, this chapter is rated EEEEEEEeee!!!! for Dagna.

Josephine was just finishing up a letter to the Marschellin of the Anderfels (a blatant attempt to fish for news of Hawke, not that it would work, but one must try) when the Inquisitor stopped by her office, chipper as always.

“Ambassador,” he said brightly, dropping a small sheaf of ink-smudged paper unceremoniously on her desk. “I was wondering if you had a moment to review the correspondence to Nevarra about the treaty. I feel like I’ve got what I need to say, but the nuances - "

She barely glanced up. “You don’t need to keep asking me for help with your correspondence, Inquisitor,” she said flatly. “You’re quite an agile diplomat, and I’m confident - we are _all_ confident - that you know what you are doing.”

Eian shrugged. “I’m still making it up as I go along,” he said. “And as long as I’ve got top-quality advisers, I’m going to ask them for advice. I - “ He glanced around the room, at the half-written page on her desk, at her cup of tea gone cold, and faltered. “I’m interrupting. I’m sorry.”

“No, not at all - “ The ambassador, suddenly flustered, glanced around the room - empty, for once, of aides and hangers-on - and seemed to make a decision. She stood and gestured to the war room. “In there, please, Inquisitor, if you don’t mind,” she said briskly. “This needs to be a _private_ discussion.”

“A discussion about what?” Eian said as he followed her.

“Our latest initiative,” she said. It was strange, being in the war room without any, you know, war, but Josephine stood as fiercely and formally as if they were preparing for battle, hands behind her back like a general at parade rest. “The… personal one.”

“You mean Project Dwarfsnog?”

Josephine sighed deeply and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Ah,” she said weakly. “It has a name now.”

“I told Sera she could name it. It’s the least I could do after the thing with the bear actually worked out -”

Josephine ignored this. “You do realize,” she said sharply, “that if this...campaign...fails, the consequences will be worse than you think.”

“How so?” Eian said. “If we’re found out, they grumble, I grovel, everyone has a laugh and it all goes back to normal, no? They’d know it was all in good -”

“If our subject were Sera,” Josephine said, “I would agree with you. Dorian. The Bull would endure it with good grace, at least. But not Varric and Cassandra. For some -” she glanced sharply at the Inquisitor - “love is good sport, a lighthearted game. Not these two. They’ve seen much tragedy, and they guard their hearts. To trick them so…” She paced the room, restless. “If we are found out, Varric will feel betrayed. Cassandra, humiliated. It will strike at the core of who they are. And you’ll lose the trust of two of our least dispensible people.”

“Huh,” Eian said weakly. “I… hadn’t really thought of it that way.” He shrugged. “But isn’t this the same thing that you do, all the time? Arranging amours for the good of Thedas? I’d have thought you’d be all in on this.”

“That’s different,” she said hotly.

“How so?”

“Well,” she said, “for one, you seem to imply that I push the nobility of Thedas around on a chessboard, which is quite far from the truth. Two, any pushing I do is out of necessity, not high spirits. And three, I never presume to arrange affairs without some of the necessary feeling, or potential for the same, already present. I can’t work with what’s not there.”

“And you don’t think there’s anything there,” Eian said. “With Varric and Cassandra.”

“There’s mutual respect there, I will agree,” she said. “More of it than either of them would ever admit. I believe they have the potential to forge a respectful, if unlikely, friendship.” She sighed. “But I’m not picking up anything else. And if it were there, I would see the tells.”

“Would you?” Eian said quietly. Then he grinned. “Of course you would. It’s your job. Was that part of your bard training, back in the day? Teasing out the smallest signs of unrequited longing?”

“One does learn to spot a bluff,” she said. “I admit, Varric is difficult to read, when he chooses to be. And Cassandra… is complicated. Something could be there that I’m simply missing. But in the absence of something more… substantial, I strongly suggest we call off our campaign.”

Eian sighed. “I understand where you’re coming from,” he said, “but you’re not out there in the field with them every day. You’d think they don’t like each other, listening to the words, but all they’re doing is poking each other with sticks to get the other’s attention. And all the glancing at each other and glancing away! It’s delightful.”

“I would think they would be more…”

“Mature?” Eian laughed. “Even the best of us can resort to pigtail-pulling when in the throes of hopeless infatuation.”

Josephine raised an eyebrow. “Indeed,” she said coolly. “And if I’d seen it with my own eyes I’d say full speed ahead. But my recommendation stands. Absent solid evidence, I say we leave them alone. Let them have their dignity.”

Eian was getting nervous. “Look,” he said, “what if we found you some evidence? I’ll put together a game of Wicked Grace. Tonight. I’m pretty sure neither of them is doing anything else. Watch them closely, you’ll see what I mean. And then -”

“And then,” she said thoughtfully. She was silent a long moment. “What I wonder is this, Inquisitor. What is your investment in this… relationship? Surely there are better ways to spend your time than arranging your advisers’ romantic lives.”

“I just… It’s there, Josephine. It’s there. You’ll see it, I promise! And as for why… I suppose I just want them to be happy.”

“And you believe this romance will make them happy.”

“Why wouldn’t it?” Eian was getting emphatic about this. “It’s the end of the world! I mean, not if we do our job right it isn’t, but still. Why make my two dear friends face it alone? I just want them to have this!”

“Why?”

“Because _I can’t!_ ” he cried.

There was a long, embarrassed silence. Josephine broke it first, hesitantly. “Inquisitor -”

“That’s just it,” he said. “I’m the Inquisitor. I shouldn’t be, but I am. Someone put a jumped-up tavern wastrel in charge of this… overwhelming force, because of _this_ \- “ he took off the glove he habitually wore over the Mark - his palm glittered green a moment and faded.

“You are many things,” Josephine said quietly, “but ‘jumped-up tavern wastrel’ is certainly not one of them.”

“Of course it is,” he said, “it’s what I’ve been striving toward for most of my life. When you’re the youngest Trevelyan, you’re either a Brother, a Sister, a templar, or a disappointment. Since I’ve no interest in prayer or fighting, I chose the last option. And it was going so well.” He ran a hand through his dark hair, which stood up in strange points. “And now… I’m being asked to be more than what I am. It’s… if I make one wrong step…”

Josephine tentatively reached out a hand - then stopped, seeming to catch herself. “No,” she said, “You’re being asked to be more than what you _were_. That’s what life asks of everyone. What you were in the past doesn’t define you. You’ve become - “

“What I’ve become,” he said miserably, “is…” His glove slipped from his hand and fell to the floor; his mark limned a sickly pale green for a moment. “I don’t even know. A vessel for something I don’t understand. A symbol. A danger to myself and others. And in _way_ over my head. I’m not dragging anyone else into this with me.”

Josephine’s mouth quirked upward. “The last I checked, everyone in Skyhold is already in this with you.”

“Well, you know - but - what if someone tried to get at me through my partner? Like, they kidnap her and threaten me with -”

“You’ve been reading too many of Varric’s books. Keep in mind that if you chose - someone at Skyhold - “ her voice wavered for a moment, just a moment - “ that she would be here, in a remote military mountain fortress, and no doubt heavily armed.”

“Good point. I do like my women heavily armed.”

“That… ah, leads me to something else I was…” She trailed off. “This is a personal question, and by no means do you have to answer it, but, in light of what you’ve just told me, it would put some things in…” She took a deep breath, lowered her eyes. “The ruse. Is there… any truth to it.”

“You mean, am I in love with Cassandra?” Eian said cheerfully. “I mean… yes? Of course.”

“Ah,” Josephine said, very quietly.

“Aren’t you?” he continued blithely, as if he hadn’t heard her. “I would think everyone’s a little bit in love with Cassandra. She’s magnificent! But practically? Hoo boy, no. I’d sooner woo a hurricane.”

“Would you,” Josephine said.

“Varric’s a man who likes a challenge. Me? I’m a simple man. All I need is a bottle of wine, a deck of cards, and - “ his eyes met Josephine’s for a fraction of a moment, probably entirely by accident - “good company.” He sighed. “But. Like I said, that point is moot for now. I’ll just have to live vicariously.”

“If we continue this plot,” Josephine said tartly. The tense atmosphere had begun to dissipate, just a little. “Which I still disapprove of.”

“You know, we _can_ get an answer. A real one. All we have to do is ask Cole.”

Josephine frowned. “He could tell us their true feelings, no doubt. Or he could say something cryptic and slightly disturbing and then run off to look for chicken feathers. Who knows?”

“When’s he coming back, anyway?”

“In a week, I think his letter said. It was difficult to read. There was jam on it.”

“At least he’s eating!” Eian said brightly.

There was a long silence, halfway between companionable and awkward. Finally Josephine said, “If you truly believe they -”

“I do. It’ll work. Trust me on this.”

Josephine sighed. “Let us compromise. I’ll… speak to them. Carefully, of course. In the meantime, you might as well set up that game of Wicked Grace. If, by chance, I am able to see what you see.... we continue. If not, we leave them be. Do you agree?”

“Sounds good to me,” he said.

“Then it’s agreed,” she said smoothly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my work. I should have some time this afternoon to review your Nevarran letters.” She inclined her head formally. “Inquisitor.”

“Ambassador.” He gave her a small, formal bow, and she turned and left the room without a backward glance.

* * *

Josephine managed to keep herself together until the war room door closed behind her, at which point she hurried down the corridor to the tiny tower landing, slammed the door behind her and leaned against the wall, shaking slightly. Maker! If she’d known when she woke up this morning that she’d be having a conversation with the _Inquisitor_ about _romance_ , of all things, and that she’d very nearly slip up and confess…

She’d wanted to reach out to him. Not only to thank him for trusting her, not only to soothe his fears and express her support, but to say what was running through her head - to tell him how she truly thought of him, how she was bound to his fate now for more reasons than he may have guessed - or had he guessed? She hadn’t meant to ask about Cassandra but it just came out, and now what if he knew how she felt? She would _die_. She would literally lie down and die, and on her gravestone it would be written, _Here lies Josephine Montilyet, embarrassed to death in front of the man she -_

Oh dear Maker, why did he have to be so handsome?

* * *

Eian staggered against the war table, knocking over a handful of Fereldan troops in the process. Maker’s hairy ballsack, if he’d known when he woke up this morning that he’d be explaining his rationale behind Project Dwarfsnog to the very woman he had to bite his tongue daily to avoid proposing to on the spot -

Of _course_ he’d mess up and start rambling like a moron. Josephine’s presence in any given room made him at least 40% stupider. He’d thought he had it under control, he’d thought he’d come to terms with the fact that not only was he better off not pursuing her for Inquisitorial reasons but also she wasn’t interested (why else would she be so formal all the time?), but for a moment there, when she’d asked him about Cassandra, a sliver of hope had -

False hope, of course. Maker, what if she _knew_? He was a good liar, but was anyone good enough to hide the rush of feeling that came over him in the presence of Lady Montilyet?

Oh dear Maker, why did she have to be so beautiful?

* * *

 Meanwhile, in the Undercroft:

“Ink that only one person can read?” Dagna said excitedly (as if she has ever said anything any other way). “I don’t think anyone’s ever done that before, which means this should be really fun! I’ll need to know who the recipient is, of course, maybe get some of their hair, that kind of thing. What’s it for? Spy stuff? I love spy stuff.”

“If I told you I’d have to kill you,” Varric said. Dagna looked delightedly shocked. “It’s not Inquisition business, though. It’s a personal...favor. A very delicate, very secret personal favor. I’m willing to pay.“ Something on a table near him sparked blue, and he added, “So long as said payment doesn’t involve any really weird shit.”

“How about _kind of_ weird shit?”

“That’s negotiable.”

“Okay,” Dagna said. “How about this? I make the ink for free, since it’s going to be SO MUCH fun! It’ll be so fun I’ll have a really hard time not talking about it!” She regarded Varric with the shrewd gaze of a seasoned shopmaster. “Which means silence is going to cost you.”

“I’ve got the funds,” Varric said. Probably. Somewhere. Dagna’s services weren’t cheap, and most of his investments were tied up in Inquisition business at this point, but he could probably sell the turnip farm if he had to. “Or I can get supplies if you need them. Like I said, no _really_ weird shit, but if it doesn’t explode or drive people insane -”

Dagna shook her freckled head. “I have two conditions in mind,” she said. “So in _Hard in Hightown_ , the forensics department is kind of understaffed, right? So what if there was this quirky new forensics officer, kind of cute, maybe a little socially awkward…”

“All right,” Varric said. “Sure. Fine. Quirky forensics officer it is. What’s the other condition?”

“Venture capital,” she said. “Once all this is over, I’ve got an idea that’s going to _completely_ disrupt the lyrium mining industry! I’ve got my eye on some property in the Silicate Valley. You coming on as an early public backer would really get the Merchant’s Guild’s attention.”

“I’ll review your business plan, but I can’t promise anything,” Varric said. “How about instead I throw in two action scenes and a love interest for forensics girl?”

“A love interest!” Dagna’s eyes sparkled with the gleam of a fangirl whose ship was just made canon. “Can it be...like...an apostate who’s really interested in the Fade? Maybe… I don’t know, an elf. Or not. Whatever you want to do! But they could explore ancient secrets together and…” Her face was beet-red by now, and Varric had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not? I can manage that much.” What were the chances Solas would ever read one of his books? Considering that said books were less than a thousand years old: low.

Dagna nodded, satisfied, and extended a hand covered in weird stains Varric did not want to ask about. They shook on it, dwarf to dwarf. And then she asked the question he’d been dreading: “Who’s it for?”

He told her.

When the high-pitched squeal died down, she was still bouncing up and down a little. “I _can’t even_!” she said. “Someone else is going to have to even, because I can’t! So you were the one who wrote her the - “

“Yeah, keep it quiet, okay? And just so you know, it’s not _from_ me. Technically, it’s from my client. I’m just the pen for hire.”

“Oooh! And your client is -”

“If I told you that,” he said, “I’d REALLY have to kill you.” He patted Bianca, gave Dagna a feral smile meant to imply that he’d killed people for less, and followed it up with a friendly wink before sauntering out of the Undercroft. Always good to leave your suppliers a little off their guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, everyone in Skyhold is secretly in love with everyone else. Because that's how I roll.


End file.
